


The Man of Spangl'd Stars

by OldSwinburne



Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman, Captain America - All Media Types, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay - Michael Chabon
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Study in Emerald Fusion, Alternate Universe - Lovecraft Fusion, Body Horror, Comic Book Science, Crossover, Dystopia, Eldritch Abominations (Cthulhu Mythos), Horror, Jewish Steve Rogers, Literary References & Allusions, Lovecraftian, M/M, Multiple Crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:47:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27470692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldSwinburne/pseuds/OldSwinburne
Summary: Thousands of years ago, the Great Old Ones took over humanity. In the 1940s, a figure known as Captain America arises, but his story is very different then it might first appear. Everyone knows about the famous superhero, but what of the man behind the mask?A Lovecraftian AU of Captain America.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	The Man of Spangl'd Stars

Long ago, in ages past, the dark gods that lurk beyond our miserable mortal realm awoke, casting their primordial eye on the race of man. The cracks in the fabric of reality opened up, shedding horrible light on the blackened heaths of the realm. Those that looked upon the Old Ones perished, minds warped, trapped in the prisons of their flesh; but, as a boon, some of the Gods granted clemency to certain mortals, warping their bodies to contain the hideous knowledge that they were not meant to contain. The scions of Innsmouth, eyes bulging and gills flapping as signs of their aquatic ancestry; the children of Dunwich, dark clothing hiding a mass of scales and tentacles. The Gods, in their mercy, chose to let humanity survive, looked on as one would an ant farm, the deep, great intelligence of their masters staring unblinkingly at their frantic scurrying. 

As the groaning slide of the twentieth century reached its apex, the chattering mixture of cult members and insane xenophobic New England writers that was called its humanity began a terrible World War; as the 1940s crested into view, millions died fighting along fronts in Europe, Africa and the Pacific, battling for reasons they did not understand and for arcane masters that danced to eldritch rhythms. In Germany dwelt that dark god the Hydra, a multitude of sobbing, grimacing heads from some strange dimensional gulf, burning and pillaging the lands around it; Allied spies had reported sightings of a vast cult, ruled over by Mother Hydra, herself the consort of Dagon, and the Red Skull, whose antecedents no-one could trace, but whose grinning crimson visage was the source of many of the nightmares of the residents of Arkham Asylum. 

In an attempt to combat this gallery of horrors, the Allied forces of the U.S. created a symbol, some gutter rat transformed by arcane science into an _ubermensch._ Both sides had their ideas of aryan perfection, it seemed, but it was only the Allies who carried out their plan. They called him Captain because he rained defeat down on his enemies, and America as an offering to the Lord of the Black Lake A-Mnomquah.

And so it came to 1942, when poor, penniless artist Joe Kavalier, who only wanted his family in Germany home with him, saw Captain America for the first time. 

They were on the 14th floor of the Empire State Building. Outside, the city gleamed, a faint replica of the Elder Gods’ Antarctic towers, a faded memory of the long-destroyed civilisation. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Gail Wynand, the head of the publishing company that Joe worked for.

“Stunning,” said Joe. “Something that never fails to take my breath away.”

Gail Wynand, the harsh-faced owner of Empire Comics, had come a long way down in the world since his heyday in the 1920s. The thirties crash had done terrible things to everyone; once Wynand had had a newspaper empire to rival that of Charles Foster Kane himself. Now, to his chagrin, he was stuck in publishing comic cuts for patriotic children. 

“So, how are you, Mr Kavalier?” said Wynand. “Enjoying your scribbles, hmm?”

Joe Kavalier lit a cigarette, gazing steadily at the newspaper magnate. Wynand’s eyes were beady, his face lined with pain and cruelty. Joe had to be very careful around him; he was a shark with the smell of chum in his path. 

“He is _called_ the Escapist,” said Joe. “And he is at least as popular as the Winged Avenger or the Bat Lady, or any of the other superheroes that Murdock Publishing has.”

“I’m sure you have your fun with your little Houdini imitation,” said Wynand. “But we have a commission from the US army to worry about. They want us to publicise one of the little experiments that they have running about. Money for war bonds, I expect.”

“Oh?” said Joe. He didn’t trust the Army. They had taken too many things from him over the years.

“Have you heard of the one they call Captain America?” asked Wynand. 

Joe had. He was Jewish, after all, and any article linked to his family back in Europe was fiercely devoured. The knowledge that some figure had been turning the tides against the Nazi forces had filled him with a cautious hope. And yet Joe was not a blind patriot; the stars and stripes of the U.S.A. may spell justice and freedom for some people, but it was not America that had ferried him from Nazi-occupied Prague to Ellis Island.

“I’ve heard of the man, yes,” Joe acknowledged.

Wynand grimaced. “I want you to interview him, get his story. You’re the comics genius, I’m sure you can dip our toe into the murky waters of journalism just this once. Find out his story, see what makes him tick. We want violence and action for the comic, remember Joe.” He gave a lecherous grin. “Try and put some headlight comics in there, real good girl art. That always sells more.”

“Fine,” said Joe, although he knew he had little choice in the matter. “When is the meeting scheduled for?”

Wynand paled and looked at his watch. “Right now.” He jerked his head towards the elevator, and if Joe did not know better, he would have thought that the mogul was scared of what was going to come out of it.

“That’s not a lot of notice,” observed Joe. He joined Wynand in looking nervously at the Art Deco lift doors.

“You think I have a single damn say about when those Sergeant types do?” snarled Wynand. “We should be grateful they didn’t commandeer the whole building.”

At this, the Empire States elevator came to a juddering halt, and a large, hulking figure lurched out. Joe recognised him only because of the stars and stripes emblazoned on his body.

“Here’s the man himself,” said Gail Wynand. “I’m sure you’ll write what you can about him. Watch out, though- the census will be looking over everything you did.”

At first, Captain America looked like a paragon of masculinity, the platonic ideal of the physical form, the ‘after’ photo in every body-building advert. But looking closer, Joe could discern that something was wrong. His arms bulged in strange places, seemingly overlapping his torso, and his neck seemed too long and thin. His legs, quadriceps flexing, bent the wrong way, momentarily looking more like the skeletal structure of a bird than a man. Joe mentally ran the maths in his head, and quickly realized that his anatomy was all wrong. His hands tapered to stump-like wrists before flaring out into a mess of knuckle-bones and fingers; his chest muscles bulged out, but without him taking any breaths to maintain it. Looking down, his feet seemed blurry and ill-defined. He was all muscle and no bones. Joe Kavalier had to swallow the bile that rose up in his mouth at this impossibility.

The creature was, when he talked, surprisingly soft-spoken.

“Hello,” he murmured, his voice like the rustles of trees at midnight. “I’m something of an artist myself.”

It was only with difficulty that Joe Kavalier was able to pull himself together. “So,” he said, visions of ancient cities and non-Euclidean angles filling his mind. “Do you want to talk about your origin? For the comic book, I mean?”

“Let me tell you about Captain America,” said the figure. He gave a small hissing sound, his jowls contorting strangely, sending shadows skittering across his face in the low light. “Let me tell you all about the story of myself.”

“Right, right,” said Joe Kavalier. He picked up his pen and a notebook, preparing to do his best shorthand. “You are from Brooklyn, correct?” 

“I was born in Brooklyn, that is true,” said Captain America. “But my true birth was in the Red Hook.”

* * *

Travel down to Brooklyn, in that strange place where a peninsula reaches out from the Upper New York Bay out into the Atlantic, and you reach the waterfront neighbourhood of Red Hook. The houses are tall and squalid, the buildings crushed under the weight of colonial history. Under the cobbled streets is the blood red clay that gives the area its name, the dry soil the source of all the growth of the place. Along the waterfront are ship-building factories and dockyards, manned by citizens from every part of the globe; the original Dutch colonists who called the region the guttural _Roode Hoek,_ and the assorted Asian and Pacific Islander immigrants who came there to call it home. Even some people from nearby Innsmouth could be found, their fish-like features and strange looks ignored in favour of their nautical skill. 

If you went to Red Hook during 1936, you could find one of the Hooverville shanty towns that had sprung up during the Depression, ramshackle huts made from cobbled together boards and squares of aluminium siding. This one was _Ørkenen Sur,_ a name awarded it by the Norwegian sailors who were unemployed there; it meant ‘The Bitter Desert’, and it was the home of a thin-looking young man called Steven Rajchman.

Steven Rajchman eked out a day-to-day existence in the squalid little collection of shacks that was his home. He was a thin, virtually skeletal boy, growing up in the crowded slums of Red Hook; his main possessions were the vast array of physical ailments that he carried about with him. He had rheumatic fever, asthma, high blood pressure, two different forms of scarlet fever, heart trouble, chronic colds, sunken chest, and some remnants of his mother’s tuberculosis. The doctors called him a medical miracle just for surviving this long; Bucky Barnes called him seventy pounds soaking wet. When the war came, the recruiters would turn him down flat. It was there that the problems began.

Bucky Barnes, meanwhile, was Steven’s childhood best friend. They had grown up together, running along the train tracks that circled Brooklyn and laughingly climbing the walls of other people’s gardens. Over the years they had gotten closer, had cuddled together for warmth, Steven’s small frame nestling inside Bucky’s larger one. Life was cruel to those who led the lifestyle that they had; in future years, historians would label their relationship as brotherly, but it was so much more. The ritual they had undergone when they were in their teens, where they swore a blood oath in an approximation of a marriage ceremony, was a fine indicator of that. Bucky was somewhat savvier, understanding how society worked, but Steven chafed at these restrictions. Steven wanted more, and, Red Hook, being what it was, it soon answered in full detail. 

There was no shortage of talk of the outside world. The streets would sparkle with the tall tales sailors brought home from distant Asiatic waters; ply Sailor Costigan with the watered down substance that passed for beer, and he would regale you for hours of the time he vanquished the dragon lady of China and Big Stoop, her Mongolian compatriot. Most of it was xenophobic nonsense, of course, but Steven Rajchman wanted to believe that the same level of derring-do could one day be possible, even for people like him.

When he told Bucky that, he would laugh and ruffle his hair. “Give it up, squirt,” said Bucky. “That’s not the life fate’s set out for you or me. There’s things out there in the ocean that’ll take your arm off. Things with too many eyes and tentacles everywhere? Why do you think Old Man Costigan’s always drinking, eh? Some people have seen enough that they either turn to drink, or go mad.”

It was true- there were certainly a lot of old, washed-up sea-dogs, eyes bright with the insanity of what they had seen. Most of them, like Zadok Allen over at Innsmouth, or Humphrey Lathrop at Marlborough, would sidle up to you and exposit for hours in barely-understood drunken patois in exchange for a free drink and a meal. 

“But there are people out there making a difference, you know,” said Steven to Bucky one day. “You remember a few years back, the man who assassinated one of the Elder Ones? They called him ‘the Shadow’, and they still haven’t found out who it was. Then there was the strange goings-on in Kansas, when that rocket that was not of this realm landed in that Smallville cornfield. All I’m saying is that there are people out there who can change things.”

Bucky went white, and looked around him, searching for listening ears. You could never be too careful in America nowadays. “Now listen, buddy,” he said, gripping Steven’s arm tightly. “Take my word for it. Nothing good will come from you going down that path.”

“There are _stories,_ Bucky. Of an organisation fighting against this incursion of the Old Ones. They’re a resistance movement, a division of like-minded heroes that want a return to humanity. I’ve heard of them- they’re called Delta Green. That’s what Costigan says, anyhow,” continued Steven Rajchman, eyes alight with optimism. 

“It won’t be like that, though,” said Bucky. “Take my word for it; anybody who says they’re out to save the world will have at least three apocalyptic cults toiling away in the shadows.”

Maybe it might have been like that, thought Rajchman. In a world where humanity hadn’t lost a war with the Elder Gods a thousand years ago. In a world where America stood for freedom, rather than the nonsense of Buzz Windrip spouted in the White House. Windrip was the Head of the Mystic Knights of the Sea Lodge, an offshoot of the Esoteric Order of Dagon, and he preached the teachings of the Elder Gods wherever he went, using the power to get into office. People lived in fear of the Minute Men, the paramilitary force that Windrip used as his personal armed guard. It was they who responded to protests with bayonets and quietly vanished the people who disagreed with them. They always came back different, strangely docile and supportive of the new regime. Bucky also used to call them ‘Minnie Mouses’, much to Steven’s concern and grudging admiration. 

Before Windrip was Judd Hammond, who (said the rumours) was possessed by a strange presence just as he was being sworn into office. He would amble around like a puppet on a string, eyes blinking strangely, looking out at the world as if there was some vast, malicious intelligence peering out. Some, the more naive, placed the presence as that of the archangel Gabriel; others, citing the example of one Nathaniel Peaslee, claimed that it was a result of malign practices by the Great Race of Yith, lost in the abyss of time.

Steven Rajchman learned at a young age that there was little anyone could do against the whims of the Old Ones. Thinking of Windrip and his Minute Men, though, and the queues developing outside the breadline on the outskirts of Hooverville, he wondered whether humanity could be the cruelest creatures around.

As Bucky and Steve grew older and closer, leaving the 1930s behind them, the world around got harsher and darker. A spectre of doom was haunting Europe, the Nazi war machine crushing innocent countries beneath its vast teeth. Old Man Costigan had gone silent, talking only of stories of devilish German cultists like Hjalmar Poelzig and Ibrahim Malacou. Steven wanted to enlist, but his vast catalogue of ailments and illnesses prevented him. Bucky was more cautious; he knew what being a soldier meant, and knew that it was nothing good. Still, the constant rejection discouraged Steven Rajchman, much to Bucky’s consternation.

For a minute, and only a minute, Rajchman looked at a building on the south side of Washington Square. It was white and gleaming, the Greek pillars and carved flowers providing a sense of legitimacy. A thin, gold railing passed around outside. Some people, unshaven and crushed by years of abuse, mingled around, casting nervous glances inside, as if longing for the riches inside. No riches, of course, lay inside. Nothing of anything did.

“You know, I thought it was a public toilet, at first,” said Bucky. “It’s certainly the right size for it.”

Steven huffed a laugh. “You can’t say that, you know.” And they couldn’t; it wasn’t a toilet at all, but one of the Government Lethal Chambers that had been set up ever since suicide was ruled legal in 1920. To some, the only way of escaping the constant, maddening presence of the Old Ones was self-destruction, something that the Hammond government encouraged with cold cynical apathy.

“Do you ever wonder if they’ll accept us?” asked Steven, softly.

“No, you’re too skinny,” Bucky snarked. His tone was light, but he looked at his partner with concern in his eyes.

“You know what I mean,” said Steve, “Us. Punks. Men who like other men.”

“ _Punks?_ Where did you hear that, Vaseline Alley? What impure thoughts have you been picking up over there, I wonder?”

“Bucky.”

“Now, _queer,_ I understand. I’ve always liked the phrase ‘ _Twilight Aristocracy’,_ myself. But _punk?”_

“ _Bucky!_ Please. Answer the question.”

Bucky sighed, and looked over at the Lethal Chamber. He didn’t answer, which, in itself, was answer enough.

“Let’s come away from there, Steve,” said Bucky. “It’s not good for you, always looking at it.”

“Fine,” said Steven, and let Bucky pull him away. As he was leaving, he saw one of the men, clothes threadbare and falling apart, slip into the Chamber.

It was when Steve and Bucky were leaving the area- passing the drab Municipal Girls Orphanage, where a little red-headed orphan looked longingly out of the window- that they were stopped by a man in full army regalia. His face was weathered, as leathery as an old boot, and his eyes were cold with military precision. He was flanked by two Minute Men, masked men in sharp uniforms with menacing batons.

“Sorry to stop you two boys,” said the officer. “I couldn’t help notice that you have been around the Lethal Chamber a lot recently. Government policy, you see. It’s my job to check up on these things.”

Steven turned to the newcomer with a wide smile, albeit one a little worn from emotional strain. Bucky, however, was more sceptical. He eyed the Minute Men suspiciously, the thin light of the alleyway glinting off the sides of their tin helmets. In particular, he noticed the emblem on their uniforms; in an imitation of the American flag, a five-pointed star was stitched to their sleeve. Apart from the colour, it was a direct imitation of Stalin’s Soviet star. The man who accompanied them also seemed shady, despite the array of medals on his jacket. Bucky knew well that a man’s decorations did not reflect the colour of his soul.

Steven Rajchman, however, was more optimistic about the ways of the world, and welcomed the soldier with a kind exclamation. “Don’t worry, sir. I still want to do my bit for the War Effort.”

The soldier gave Steven a frank once-over, paying attention to his half-starved form and plucky effort. He stood a moment considering him, and then spoke. “Do you really want to help your country, lad?”

“Of course, sir!”

Steven always wanted to do something. His country was a place that frequently frightened him, but there was a bone-deep fire inside of him that spoke of something more. He had a vision of what his country could be, the platonic ideal of the American Dream, and that is what spurred him on. He thought of Delta Green, the organisation that did what was right regardless of the arcane and impenetrable intentions of the Old Ones. He wanted to change the world, to leave it better than he found it. 

“Even if it might be dangerous?” said the soldier, the worm baited on his hook.

“Sure! The only reason I’m not enlisted is because of my two left feet, but I hope that if I keep trying----”

“Good, good,” said the soldier, interrupting Steven’s ramblings. “Any family?”

Alarm bells were ringing in Bucky’s head at this, but Steven seemed bullheadedly oblivious. “None. My mother passed away from tuberculosis this past winter, sir.”

“Tragic, I’m sure. Now, my name is Sergeant Chester Phillips of the United States Army. What might your names be?”

The two introduced themselves, and Phillips gestured at one of the Minute Men to write the information down. Then, through a mixture of light pushes and frequent patriotic ramblings, Bucky and Steven were slowly escorted to an old Church dance hall that they had seen before when walking around the outskirts of Red Hook. The room inside had clearly been commandeered by the army, as it had several impromptu nursing stations with wounded soldiers on them, being looked after by prim matronly types who swarmed around like bees. A poster on the wall leered down at them, warning the room that ‘Walls Have Ears’.

Chester Phillips ushered them to the side, where three figures were standing, pouring over dense scientific documents. 

“I’ve found a candidate for the experiment,” said Phillips. “No family, and a real patriot.”

“Really?” said one of the men, a taller, well-dressed individual with an elegant cane. “I had thought they were a dying breed.”

“Which one is it?” said the other, putting on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. “The blonde or the brunette?”

The third remained silent, but looked at the two Brooklyn natives with a sympathetic, paternal air.

Chester Phillips shut up both men with an angry look, then turned to Steven and Bucky. “I must make introductions. This here is Robert Suydam, who owns much of Red Hook. While these, of course, are our resident scientists Abraham Eskine and Herbert West."

Bucky recognised a few of the names. Steven, still largely naïve to the world, didn’t. The man known as Robert Suydam was a face Bucky had seen a few times around Red Hook, usually in connection to his religious events up at his large mansion in Flatbush. He ran the criminal underworld in the area, with even local mob bosses like the ironically-named Johnny Friendly respecting his authority. When Bucky saw him a few years ago, he had been an ancient man with unkempt hair and beard, looking accusingly at people and gesturing with his expensive-looking cane. Now, however, he was rejuvenated, hair black and slicked back, looking like an urbane man of thirty. Bucky wondered what sort of sorcery or science could lead a man to regain his lost youth, or to do whatever the hell they were planning to do to poor Steve.

Some similar reversal of the aging process must have been surgically administered to the other figure, a square-jawed scientist with ruffled hair and a smear of blood on his cheek. He introduced himself as Dr. Herbert West of Miskatonic University. West looked young, but the whispers about him said that he had accomplished what even the old seekers of longevity, the mad Doctor Nikola and Dorian Gray of the mouldering painting, had not. In this savage new century anything was possible. Wherever he went was the bitter aftertaste of rotting flesh, and he kept what appeared to be an ice-box hung in a satchel on his back, chilling every room he entered. Rumour had it that he had worked with the Spanish physician Doctor Alfredo Muñoz on the life-granting science, and had let the man decompose into primordial ooze after stealing his technology and source of life. He certainly looked young for a man who served in both World War One and World War Two. 

Bucky didn’t recognise Erskine, but he looked like the old image of a mad scientist, scruffy wisps of white hair escaping from his comb-over, and intelligent eyes squinting behind turtle shell horn-rimmed glasses. It looked like he hadn’t shaved in a month.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” said West, words pleasant but tone dismissive.

“And this, gentlemen, is our potential super soldier candidate Steven Rajchman.”

“Rajchman, Steven Rajchman” said Robert Suydam, squinting down at the scrawny youth. He tasted the syllables on his tongue, testing them out. “Not a very American name, is it, son?”

Rajchman scowled at the manl, mood worsening. Bucky put on a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“That’s my name,” said Rajchman. “It’s a good name.”

Phillips sniffed, and looked over to Phillipps. “What is he, Jewish?”

“Ashkenazi,” said Phillips, gazing at the stick-thin recruit. His tone had suddenly changed, becoming less friendly and more the harsh bark of the hardened army officer. 

“Bless you,” said Suydam. “The point is, it just won’t do. If you’re going to be a possibility for the Captain, you can’t have a name that says you’ve just stepped off the boat. We need a name that’s as American as baseball and apple pie. Who’s that cowboy at the movies, boy?” 

Rajchman squinted. Herbert West mentally added ‘short-sightedness’ to the ongoing list of patient ailments he was mentally assembling. “The singing one?”

“Of course the singing one.”

“Er… Roy Rogers, sir.” Steven remembered when him and Bucky would sneak in the backs of run-down cinemas and watch reels of silent comedies or overwrought romantic dramas. Roy Rogers, whose singing antics often involved lost mines and wild discoveries, were sandwiched between the cartoons and the two-reelers showcasing Blanche Hudson’s array of beautiful dresses.

“Fantastic,” said Phillips, clapping his hand like it was a done deal. “Rogers is a fine name. Steven Rogers. No, Steve Rogers, gives it a rough-riding tone. ‘Steve Rogers: Super American.” I like it.”

“You can’t call him ‘Super’,” drawled Suydam, looking up. “We’ll have the Luthors breathing down our necks. You know about their feud with that kryptonian.”

“Fine, we’ll think of something,” snapped Phillips. “Now, you, Private, get used to the name Rogers. I don’t want you flinching whenever you hear it.”

The newly-christened Steve Rogers answered meekly enough with a muttered ‘yes, sir’, but inside him something burned. These people, all they did was _take_ and _take._ These men had taken his name and identity, and they hadn’t even told him why.

Erskine put a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, lad. They changed my name too. I was born Josef Reinstein, you know? But they had to change that, said it was too Jewish. Erskine’s a Scottish name. I’ve never been to Scotland in my life. Still, hey ho, hum? What do goyim know?”

Steve gave a laugh that was more like a choke. “What indeed?”

It was Bucky who spoke up. “Listen, we’ve been very patient. Can somebody tell us what exactly is going on?”

Phillips sighed, and looked at the new Steve Rogers. “Boy,” he said, tone firm and strident. “We’re losing this war. We need something to really put the wind up those Japs and Krauts, send them running for the hills. Something big, something destructive. Now, this is all hush hush, but this initiative- Codename ‘The Manhattan Project’- should bring the War to a screeching halt. We are going to use radioactive particles, mixed with some good old-fashioned surgery courtesy of our friend West here, to build our own ‘Super Soldier’. Imagine it. Imagine an army of people stronger, faster, smarter, than ordinary humanity. Who can withstand ice and cold, can take bullets without flinching. Can be stronger than any of the offspring of the Elder Gods. But for that we need bodies. Volunteers. So, Rogers--” (Steve flinched at the name) “--what do you say?”

“When you say ‘experiments’,” said Steve, hesitantly, “What do you mean?”

Chester Phillips gave a cold chuckle as Erskine paled. “Why not come and see?”

The two were ushered into an adjoining room, which looked more like a morgue than a laboratory. Steve and Bucky looked on in horror at the row of operating tables, gurneys heavy with rust. On one of them, Herbert West was already elbow deep in a Super Soldier candidate. Bucky recognised the man as Grant Gardner, a local District Attorney who had gone missing a few months ago.

“Mr Gardner is a touch too overweight to be properly considered,” said West, eyes gleaming coldly behind his spectacles. “I see you have a better candidate there with you. Better to work with less matter than too much.”

Bucky felt bile raise up inside him. He swallowed it down painfully. He looked around, and saw faces that were linked to murders or disappearances over the past few years. There was Petro Noonan, a local gardener with patches of fur growing out of him from some serum gone wrong, and there was Dr John Garth, the thick-set physician who had been on death row two years before.

“Steve,” he gasped, turning to his friend beside him. “We gotta get out of here. We gotta go, buddy….”

But Steven Rajchman was standing there with a sad but determined expression on his face. Bucky knew that look. It was the look he had before he stole the rations from the Red Hook Grain Terminal and shared them around the local homeless population. It was the look he had before he was going to do something very stupid.

“No,” said Bucky. “Don’t you do it. Don’t you fucking do it.”

“I have to, Buck,” said Steve. “I have to do it for my country. They may not be perfect, but they’re my people, see? We always said ‘til the end of the line’, and I guess the line ends here.” He wasn’t crying, but there were the beginnings of tears welling up in his eyes.

“Noble sentiments, son, that do you proud,” said Chester Phillips, “but I’m afraid I must have Mr Barnes here escorted from the premises.”

Suydam grabbed Bucky by the arm and made towards the exit; the Sergeant clapped his hand on Steve’s shoulder in an approximation of camaraderie. 

“Come on, kid,” said Chester Phillips. “You’re in the army, now.”

Bucky could only look at his partner as he was dragged away. All he could here was the inhuman screams coming from the operating room. Something told him he would never see Steven- his one, his partner, his lover- ever again, and if he did, it would be in a radically different form.

  
  


* * *

“So,” said the figure to Joe. No, it wasn’t just a figure any more. It was Steve, Steve Rajchman. The skinny little boy who always wanted to change the world. “What do you think?”

Joe didn’t know what to think. He looked at his notes, at the half feverish jottings he had transcribed of key details. “Well, it certainly won’t fit into a comic book.”

Steve laughed, a series of jerkings and spasms as his body writhed uncontrollably. 

“That’s true,” said Captain America. “That’s certainly true.”

Joe half-heartedly drew the cover, approximating a world he wanted rather than the one he got. He was in a daze throughout most of it, pen flickering over the paper on its own. He was aware of the gaze of the Minute Men, not physically present but constantly watching with a censor poised to attack. Eventually, he looked down at the finished project. It was not his finest work.

On the page, Captain America’s hand swept in a parabolic arc from the right, the supersonic speed causing a miniature explosion of white inkless pulp. The moustached Hitler, face distorted in a paroxysm of pain, flew backwards, tie flapping in the wind and hand placed to protect his stomach. A stray Nazi goon in the foreground fired a gun; the trajectory of the bullet was traced ricocheting off the corner of the supersoldier’s shield in an almost nonchalant fashion. The Captain’s face distorted in a wordless snarl, the muscles on his neck moving and distorting in strange ways, extending beyond the typical reach of the normal human skeleton. A notepad with the words ‘Sabotage Plans for U.S.A.’ was clearly visible on the table; in the background, a television played footage of a munitions factory exploding. Shadows flickered on the walls in strange ways; two soldiers with tommy guns were frozen forever in time. The words “Smashing Thru Captain America Came Face To Face With Hitler” appeared in the corner, apparently devoid of any real meaning.

Steven Rajchman- Steve Rogers- looked at the tableau, and sighed. 

“It wasn’t like that,” he said. He turned his eyes to the young Jewish artist, who was awaiting his verdict. “You know it wasn’t like that, right?”

“I know,” said Joe Kavalier, eyes apologetic. “But what else can I do?”

Walking back to his miserable apartment, the comics artist mused on the strange situation. It was sad, really. Steven Rajchman was chewed up and spat out by the American war machine into Steve Rogers, Captain America, paragon and protector of the people. The end result was deeply unpleasant. He tried to tone down the strange proportions on the cover of his comic book, but when he closed his eyes there he was, arms bulbous and head in a rictus of bright, patriotic pain. He couldn’t tell his story, of course. No-one would believe him. And even if he did, Joe knew what happened on the streets of Buzz Windrip’s New York to people who spoke too much. One thing he had learnt was when to keep his mouth shut. The Minute Men were on every street corner, behind the eyes of your friends and family. He hadn’t meant to be part of the people transforming Rajchman into something he was not, but what else could he do?

Passing by a dark alley, he came to a stop as two people stepped out of the shadows. One was prim and tidy, made up in the latest fashions with brown hair pinned up and thick red lipstick. She reminded Joe vaguely of Rosie the Riveter. Beside her was a considerably more bedraggled individual in an old uniform, unshaven with long hair falling in front of his face.

“Now see here,” said Joe, putting up his hands in a placating manner. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Nor do we,” said the woman, raising a perfectly coiffed eyebrow. “But we have heard that you recently met a friend of ours.”

“What?” said Joe, a sinking feeling in his gut. He thought back to Steven Rajchman, and his inability to do anything to help. “Listen, I wasn’t any part of that. I’m innocent. I’m not involved.”

“Nevertheless,” the woman said. “I believe you can help us.” She folded over the lapel of her jacket, and there, sewn into the lining, was the distinctive thin green triangle of Delta Green, the major terrorist organisation and largest Restorationist outfit in the world.

Joe gasped, terror and exhilaration in equal parts rushing through him.

“Who are you people?” he asked.

The man spoke up for the first time in the entire conversation. His voice was gravelly and disused, like an old creaking door in an abandoned house. “My associate here is Miss Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter, and my name is James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. I believe you have heard of me.”

He had. He certainly had.

“Yes?” asked Joe, shaking slightly. “What do you want?”

“We want your help in tracking down Steve Rogers- Steven Rajchman, rather- and your assistance in saving the world.”

And really, what else could he say to that?

**Author's Note:**

> This is, of course, inspired by Neil Gaiman's 'A Study in Emerald', with specific reference to Mythos works including H.P. Lovecraft's 'Herbert West- Reanimator' (1922) and 'The Horror at Red Hook' (1927), as well as Robert W. Chambers' 'The King in Yellow' (1895). A lot of the fascist imagery, as well as Buzz Windrip and his Minute Men, comes from Sinclair Lewis' 'It Can't Happen Here' (1935). Joe Kavalier is from Michael Chabon's 'The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay' (2000). 
> 
> If you don't believe that Captain America can be an eldritch abomination, you clearly haven't seen the famous Rob Liefeld drawing of him.


End file.
